"This will sting a fair deal."
As his patient sat on a wooden stool, Henry pressed a soaked rag into his shoulder. Flinching, the patient dug his teeth further into the leathery belt in his mouth. Henry slowly wiped his rag around the man's reddened shoulder, which was encrusted by a thin dark brown layer of dried blood. The man was nearly six and a half feet tall, with skin like boiled leather and tree-trunk arms that were nearly as big as Henry's waist. His face bore a contast scowl, with a beard that held a film of sweat, and eyes that had began to water. Although he groaned into his belt and his hands balled into fists, he remained unmoving. As Henry swabbed the man's infected wound, he spoke to him. Not of his wound, the treatment, or following procedures, but of the weather.

"Awful storm we had yesterday, hm? I heard it tore some of the shingles off of the church." He dunked his rag into a bucket of water, wrung it dry, and soaked it in alchohol once more. "The Dancing Horse's basement was flooded, and so Richard is selling the barrels down there for a third of the price." He continued to clean the wound, until it was suitably free of any scabs, and had been scrubbed raw. "I don't fancy myself a drinking man, so I've steered clear. I advise you do the same. Nothing good can come of drinking basement-water infected brandy. You'll be back here the same day you visit." He began to dab a yellowish paste from a bowl on to the man's shoulder, before wrapping it in gauze, and then wrapping all that he had done in bandages.

"There. Right as rain." Henry said cheerfully. The man stood up, rolling his shoulder around, adjusting to his bandages. Rubbing his shoulder, his scowl became a grin.
"Thanks, Doc. I sure owe you one." He reached into his pocket, handing Henry a dollar.
"Only doing my job. Do be careful the next time you fall off of a wagon. That was a terrible scrape, and waiting to see me only made it worse." Henry said. The man nodded like a scolded child, before shaking Henry's hand and stepping out of the office and into the dry afternoon that awaited him, eagerly advancing down the road to The Dancing Horse.

Henry briefly cleaned his hands up to his elbows, put away his instruments, and exited through the back door of his office. In his back room, he stored most of his supplies. It was a room about three times the size of his office, and three times more cluttered. There were crates lined up along the wall that were stacked to the ceiling, as well as spare stretchers, tubs of medical equipment, shelves of books, medical illustrations, chemistry sets, and any other imaginable tool that could be of use. The air was dusty and hot, and the room itself was dim and without windows. In the back of the supply room, there was a locked door. Henry had long since memorised the maze, and maneuvered about with surprising ease for a man witha cane. Reaching the back, he unlocked and opened the door. Naturally, this door led to another door. A trapdoor.

The third room of Henry's building was only slightly larger than a closet, or a very small cell. Inside, there was a torch on the wall, a crack along the ceiling, a rug on the floor, and a thick, wooden chest. Underneath the chest's oaken lid, there lay a revolver. Underneath the torch, there were a few darkened specks of blood from an encounter years ago that had been washed away. Underneath the rug, a trapdoor. And underneath the crack, stood Henry. He pulled the rug aside, opening the trapdoor. Before lowering himself down the ladder, he sparked the torch with flint and steel he had procured during his quick walk through his supply room, and began his descent. It was a short climb, only ten or twelve rungs stood between him and the sandy ground. He turned right, and began his walk through the earthy tunnel.

His was one of five tunnels to Harriet Tubman's bunker, and it was the one used the least. Used mostly to transport emergency patients from the bunker to his office, his tunnel was also the smallest -- Barely big enough for two men to walk abreast . The bunker itself served as the headquarters for The Railsplitters, and apart from Tubman's quarters, the meeting room, and the restroom, it held six rooms. Although mostly used for storing weapons, food, and plans, the bunker was a haven for The Railsplitters. One of these six rooms served as an infirmary, where Henry and two other doctors worked, almost as if in a makeshift hospital. While patients were far from rare, the infirmary was the least visited room -- The Confederacy seldom disabled or wounded their opponents. The Confederacy shot to kill.

Henry quickly advanced through the tunnel, gliding over the dirt, with the only sound being his cane tapping the soft earth below him. He was scheduled to meet another patient, who was a fellow Railsplitter. Although he had neglected to learn what he would be treating, it was likely only a visit for medicine or an evaluation. Anything more severe, and it was more likely that the patient would visit his actual practice, which was much more well-equipped. Making his way through three sets of locked doors, he found himself in the bunker. The headquarters of The Railsplitters.

Bustling with life as usual, workers hurried about in hushed voices. Although they were five meters from the surface, there was a strict "No Shouting" policy implemented. After all, one could never be too careful. Nodding to a few friends, Henry made his way through the room, entering the infirmary. There, he was greeted with the same sight as usual. Twelve cots, three cabinets, and an operating table. In the room sat two familiar faces. Francis, a Railsplitter who frequented the infirmary in the hopes of being treated with opium, and Doctor Jeremy, one of the two doctors who worked alongside Henry. Greeting them both, Henry stood by the entrance, waiting for his patient. It had been an uneventful day thus far, and Henry absentmindedly hoped it would change soon.